On Seeking
by carpetinflight
Summary: Sometimes it is the thing you are not seeking that you most need to find. HarryxGinny, written preHBP.


_By night on my bed I sought him whom my soul loveth: I sought him, but I found him not. I will rise now, and go about the city; in the streets and in the squares I will seek him whom my soul loveth: I sought him, but I found him not._  
-Song of Solomon, 3:1-2

Ginny stepped in a puddle as she crossed the street. The bottom of her cloak would be wet with the scum of the gutters, but she didn't look down. The city was dark at this hour, and quiet, which is to say that it was as quiet as London ever got. In a city this big, someone was always awake, walking the streets until dawn in a muddy cloak.

If she turned right here, she would be near the elegant brownstone where Michael's parents lived, where she'd shared her first fumbling caresses with him on his childhood bed. Looking up at her with beautiful blue eyes from underneath long lashes, he'd told her he loved her and she'd felt nothing in response. None of the shivers or joys that a young girl dreams of, the things that you're supposed to feel when you hear those three little words. She turned left instead.

It came and it went, this feeling of restlessness. Tonight it was in full force. She knew it was useless to stay home on a night like this. She would only lie in bed, staring at the cracks on the ceiling for hours. If she looked long enough, the cracks would form the shape of a man. She could drink, or cry, or slip her hand beneath the sheets to where she was already wet, but nothing would ease the tension. She'd tried often enough to know. Instead, she went out walking.

Down this busy street and around the corner was a section of bustling bars. Some were still open at this hour, music blaring and neon blinking frantically. Inside, there would be a man with clumsy hands and beer on his breath, who would be only too happy to take her home and try to ease the tension himself. It was a place like that where she'd met Seamus again, years after they'd both left Hogwarts. They hadn't even made it home the first night; he'd pushed her up against a wall in the men's loo and screwed her there in the stall, until she thought the emptiness inside of her had been filled. That had been a long time ago, though, and she'd been wrong about that anyway.

Seamus was still around, living in a tiny flat above a curry shop. He never minded late-night visitors, and sometimes she let him talk her into bed again. She might have gone there tonight, except for his new girlfriend. It wouldn't have bothered Seamus, or Ginny for that matter, to have three in the bed, but it made for rather cramped sleeping arrangements.

Far on the other side of London lived Dean, but Ginny stayed away from that part of the city. He too had said those three little words to her, and they didn't do anything more the second time around. She felt detached from the whole situation, but Dean had let her break his heart. Of course it didn't help that she'd called him "Harry" in bed one night. Dean had always been a little too sensitive anyway, being an artist.

The stars were growing dim and her legs were beginning to ache by the time Ginny drew near Jack's. The bar was poorly lit, badly ventilated, and infrequently cleaned. She loved the place despite all that, or perhaps because of it. There were no girls in stiletto heels here, no blokes working the room. If she wanted to talk, she could always count on Jack himself, serving drinks in a dirty apron. Sure, it was a dive, but it was _her_ dive.

Pushing open the door, Ginny stepped inside the smoky room and headed for a seat at the bar. Jack was standing near one end, folding and refolding a dirty rag as he listened to the dark-haired man slouched on a stool in front of him. Ginny tried to catch the barkeep's eye, but at that moment the young man wobbled and nearly fell off his seat, catching himself only at the last possible moment.

"Bugger," he swore.

Ginny tried again to catch Jack's eye. She wanted a drink.

"Can't even sit on a bleeding barstool. Used to be able to fly."

She looked up quickly, taking a closer look at the bloke hunched drunkenly on the bar. What had looked plain and unremarkable before was now hauntingly familiar.

Yes, he could fly. Oh, how he could fly. She remembered watching him fly in Quidditch matches, darting through the air as though the broom was part of him, freefalling toward the ground only inches behind the snitch. For a moment, the image was before her eyes, vivid as life: Harry in red Quidditch robes with the sunlight in his face and the wind in his hair. When she blinked, she was in the present: a smoky bar and a dry throat.

"Oh yeah, you could fly, eh?" asked Jack, turning the rag over in his hands. "How's that?"

"You don't believe me." Harry's voice was hoarse, and slurred by drink, but it was unmistakably his.

Jack never answered questions like that. He was a good barkeeper; he knew where his tips came from. "Sounds like you've had some bad luck," he said noncommittally.

"Luck." Harry snorted. "I could tell you a little somethin' about tha…" As his voice trailed off, his head dropped slowly down until his nose rested on the bar near his forearm.

Ginny watched him lie there on the bar for a moment and thought about leaving. She could leave right now and not speak to him for another five years. There would be more dreams, and more blokes would hear the wrong name at the wrong moment, and more shoes would be worn out on the sidewalks and cobblestones of London. She was tempted to leave, but in the end there was no real choice.

She stood up and walked toward Harry, now mumbling incoherently into the crook of his elbow.

For the first time that night, Jack noticed her. "Hey Gin Gin," he said. "The usual?" He reached for the Tanqueray, an old joke of theirs.

"Not tonight, Jack," she said, nodding toward Harry on his stool.

"Friend of yours?"

"You could say that," she replied.

Sure, they were friends. Friends who avoided each other. When it seemed like the world was about to end, they'd been friends who had clung together and said ridiculous things about love and eternity. But that was then. This was now.

He was too big to carry, and too drunk to Apparate. He might even be too drunk to walk, but she hoped not.

"Harry," she said carefully, laying a hand on his shoulder.

"Mmmm," he agreed sleepily.

"Time to go."

"Five more minnitsss."

Ginny looked at Jack. Without a word, he handed her a pint glass full of water and leaned back to watch.

"Potter," she said sharply.

"Hmmmmmminnitss."

"Potter, it's time to go."

Silence.

She grabbed hold of his arm with one hand and dumped the water over his head at the same time, then swiftly pulled him to his feet.

He blinked at her, and then he shook his head like a dog, spraying water on her face. When she pulled on his arm, he followed her.

In the street, he stopped. She looked up at him, watching the droplets of water fall from his hair and streak across his cheeks.

The night sky was just starting to turn to gray, but it was still too dark for her to be able to see his eyes.

"Ginny?" he asked, as though he didn't believe what he was seeing.

"You're drunk," she replied.

He blinked at her. "I am," he agreed. "But you—"

"Come on, Harry, let's go home."

"All right."

Ginny led the way to her flat through dirty streets lit by the pale pre-dawn light. Harry tottered along beside her. She didn't touch him, and she hoped she wouldn't have to. She remembered too well what it was like to touch him, and if she started up again now she might never stop.

When they reached the corner near her flat, he stopped again.

"Where are we going?"

"I'm taking you home."

"But this isn't my house."

She suppressed a shudder. No, it wasn't Harry's house. How he could stand to live in that decrepit old place with the house-elf heads still hanging on the walls was a mystery. Half of the furniture was cursed, and no one really knew which half. Then again, it was the only thing he had from his godfather besides an aging hippogriff.

"It's my flat."

"Oh." Apparently placated, Harry turned and threw up into the gutter. The sounds of his retching echoed off the empty street. When he was done, they went inside.

The flat was small, just big enough for one person really. Ginny had always liked it that way. She didn't really want someone else there, anyway. Now that she had Harry there, she realized that there was only one bed. Well, all right, she would sleep on the sofa.

She led him to the bedroom at the back of the apartment, ignoring the bits of lacy underwear strewn across the room.

Harry had walked all the way home by himself without falling, but now she took his arm to help him into her bed.

She eased him back against the pillows, pulled off his shoes and set them neatly on the floor, and pulled up the blanket to tuck him into bed. Then she whispered _nox_ and went to sleep on the couch. Or that's what should have happened.

Instead, she somehow ended up in the bed with him, both of them fully clothed and on top of the coverlet. Somehow his arms were wrapped tightly around her and his fingers were twined in her hair. Somehow she could feel his heart beating and his ribcage expanding with every breath. None of that was in the plan, but then neither were the tears that dripped down her nose and soaked his shirt.

In the morning when they woke, the apartment was still too small for two, and the cracks on the ceiling still formed the shape of a man. His arms were still around her, though, and his heart still beat against her ear.


End file.
